2 - The Garden

The walk to Madison Square Garden was a short one, and Delaney could’ve reached her destination in about six minutes if she hadn’t chosen to take the long way around the block.   Approaching the iconic building from the Seventh Avenue side instead of Eighth gave her the opportunity to check out the loading docks, and in doing so, she found a fleet of red tractor-trailer trucks in residence.

Everything was eerily still around them, creating a bubble of inactivity amidst the hubbub of Midtown.  There were no crew members unloading equipment and shuttling it to the building in preparation for tonight’s concert, and there weren’t any milling around the area, either.   This late in the day, they were probably taking a well-deserved break with the knowledge that everything was in place and ready for the show.

Tucked in with the Bon Jovi trucks, and parked alongside a portable security barrier, was a much smaller fleet of vehicles.  Likewise, there was no human activity around the black squadron of three SUVs and a Mercedes sedan, but their mere presence indicated that someone of importance was in residence.  If not of importance, at least someone higher up the transportation food chain than New York’s subway riders and taxi hailers.

Someone like… the men of Bon Jovi, perhaps?  Was it too early for soundcheck?  Dare she hope to catch a note or two of something that special?

You’re here on business, Delaney.

Right.  Work. 

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning, but there was no quelling the extra spring in her Skechers as she cruised along West 33^rd toward the Garden’s employee entrance.   Seeing those vehicles was definitely going down in her “cool moments in life” book, but Marilee was being ridiculous by declaring Delaney as obsessed with Bon Jovi.  She couldn’t help it that her mother had a strangely selective memory.

Fiona Giannopoulos, through some random quirk of luck, heard on television that Bon Jovi was coming to town.  Recognizing the name, she flashed back to a poster of the five fluffy-haired men that had been pinned to the wall between her two daughters’ twin beds. 

For a brief time. 

In the eighties. 

That thirty-year-old recollection seemed strange to Delaney and her sister Petra, but it was perfectly logical in their mother’s mind.  Fiona’s next leap down that logic goat path had her bestowing concert tickets upon her daughters in celebration of their January birthdays.   Forget that she hadn’t gotten either of them anything beyond birthday underwear in years.  Once she got something stuck in her head, it was safest for everyone to just let it run its course. 

Fortunately for the sisters, Ma recruited their brother Max for the actual ticket acquisition process, and even more fortunate was that their little brother loved them.  A lot.  Enough to watch the clock and wait for tickets to drop, swooping in like a bird of prey to score really good seats for both shows.

He deserved an amazing gift of his own for that effort, but he’d be lucky if Delaney remembered to call by the time his November birthday rolled around.  Not that she didn't love him.  She was just a little scatter-brained sometimes.

It may be a knotted mess of complex Giannopolous-style reasoning, but all signs still pointed to Marilee being delusional.  The whole thing was nothing more than a string of weird coincidences.  The fact that Delaney would’ve bought her own tickets was irrelevant, she assured herself while preparing to enter the building where legends lived to play.

The two employees in front of her both subjected their belongings to a cursory search as Delaney waited her turn in line.  Once they’d both moved through the metal detector archway, she grudgingly surrendered her flowers to the man on security duty. 

“Be gentle with those, would ya?” 

The guard chuckled, but she noted that he did use a careful finger in poking the blooms while she took her own pass through the electronic security portal.  The pot was barely back in her grasp when a gruff voice demanded that she produce an access badge.

Turning to the man who sat on an elevated pedestal of authority at the center of the vestibule, she grinned. “Hi, Uncle Benny.”

Benedictus Giannopoulos had been working Garden security since retiring from the Marines in his mid-thirties.  Now, at the ripe age of sixty-three, he was the man in charge.  The head security honcho.  The big feta cheese.  Nothing in this building escaped his knowledge, and if he didn’t approve, God help the offender. 

She liked to think that she would’ve landed the floral contract on her own merits, but Delaney knew that the endorsement of Papa’s brother carried a lot of weight.   

“Delaney!  What are you doing here?”

With his bushy eyebrows arched in surprise, Uncle Benny looked uncharacteristically frazzled.  Normally, the world could explode around him, and he would merely sort the pieces into their respective piles for reassembly.  That didn’t seem to be the case this late Wednesday afternoon.

Holding the flowers aloft for him to see, she cheerfully relayed, “The powers-that-be requested my services.”

His features relaxed into a proud smile.  “They look good.  Who ordered them?”

“Uh…”  She’d been in such a hurry to get out of the shop that it hadn’t occurred to her to ask Marilee.  “Management?”

Rigid military roots had the proud smile withering into censure as a radio unit on the desk squawked something unintelligible.  By his standards, she should’ve been prepared to spout out all the relevant information – name, rank, serial number and all that jazz.  That’s what any good Marine would do, and hard, cold facts were the price of admission into the bowels of “his” building. 

As much as Delaney hated to disappoint, his way just wasn’t her style.  She was more of a big picture girl, and sometimes the details were just… details.  That’s the way it had always been, and while she legitimately tried to give a fat rabbit's ear about the minutiae some people thrived upon, it was still a daily struggle. 

One that her family knew about and harangued her for on a regular basis. 

Use salt instead of sugar in the cookies one time and I’m marked for life.

“Who are the flowers for?” Benny demanded while still checking personnel badges over her right shoulder and nodding employees through to the inner sanctum. 

“Bon Jovi.”

“No, really?”

Sighing at the sarcasm that was destined to rule her day, she carefully plunked her flowers onto the narrow counter encircling the security desk.   Pushing up onto her tiptoes, she leaned forward over folded arms to confess, “I was excited about this one, okay?  I’d just finished this awesome arrangement with no idea of what to do with it when we got the order.  I was thinking more about good fortune than practicalities, so how about you cut me some slack?” 

“I can’t cut anybody slack with this crew,” the Greek hard-ass grumbled.  “You’d think Jesus Christ and His Disciples were in the building from the way their security people act.”

As much as she loved her uncle, it would be nice if he didn’t always have a stick up his butt.

“Fine.  I’ll text Marilee and get the info.” 

Sneakered heels hitting the linoleum, Delaney cursed her ditziness and reached for her back pocket – only to find it empty.  The phone that should be tucked against her rump wasn’t there, and she silently cursed a creative blue streak that would wrap around the Garden twice.  The phone must still be lying on the worktable back at the shop.

Great.  Another classic “Ditzy Delaney” move that left her with no choice but to charm her uncle.  Thank God she had plenty of practice in that department.   This was the story of her life, after all. 

“Uncle Benny.”  Delaney showered him with a dimpled smile.   “This is so not a big deal.  Shawna has placed the last couple orders, and she has me drop them in the artist’s dressing room.  I’m sure the routine is the same for Bon Jovi as it was for Pink and Billy Joel.  I’ll slip in and out so fast that, even if it’s not right, nobody will know how the flowers got there.”

“You forgot your phone, too, didn’t you?  I bet you don’t even have ID.”

She met his unforgiving gaze head-on.  “I’ve got nothing but the clothes I’m wearing and my delivery.  Big freepin’ surprise.  Now stop thinking of me as your flighty niece and treat me like a vendor.”

A sharp hand gesture waved through the latest employee arrivals, and she thought he might be growling a dictionary’s worth of Greek curse words.  The growling faded away when his eyes dropped to the desk’s surface, turning to a huff when he produced a vendor’s badge.

Smacking it down on the counter in front of her, he commanded gruffly, “In and out, Delaney.  Do not make me regret this.”

Score another one for the dimples!

“Back in a flash.”  Beaming victoriously, she snatched up both the badge and flowers to dart inside the freight elevator with half a dozen staffers.   The larger-than-average car wasn’t overcrowded, and Delaney was grateful for the space that saved her precious cargo from being crushed.

She hadn’t felt this possessive of the arrangements for Billy Joel and Pink.  Those orders had come in with simple, yet specific guidelines.  A hundred red roses to commemorate Joel’s 100^th Garden show and an assortment of pink blooms for Pink.  Neither required much creativity nor tempted her to leave an ad-libbed customer satisfaction survey along with the delivery. 

The Bon Jovi order reflected Delaney’s artistic vision, and she was curious as to how the recipient would receive her work.  So what?  All artists wanted feedback, didn’t they?

Okay, Delaney.  Seriously?  Nobody’s in this brain but you.  Be real. 

Fine.  She respected Jon Bon Jovi’s career – and maybe her heart beat a little faster at his good looks and ridiculously white grin.  He didn’t have to cough up the gushing adoration that her Mother’s Day deliveries would get this weekend, but she wouldn’t mind receiving a word or nod of recognition. 

The elevator doors slid back on the fifth floor to reveal a cinderblock wall adorned with Bon Jovi signage.  Bold white letters stood out against a background of the band’s current album cover, with one neatly aligned column of signs proclaiming that Production, Management, Fan Club and Catering were down the hallway to the right.  Another set documented the night’s schedule and directed to the left for dressing rooms.

There was one more solo piece of information that displayed pictures of the band members along with images of acceptable backstage credentials for everyone else.  It gave Delaney the idea that, if someone wasn’t one of those black and white photo images or wearing a designated pass, they wouldn’t be welcome in this area. 

She, however, was a vendor.  All she had to do was hold her chin high, nod at the security guard stationed outside the elevator and make tracks for the dressing room. 

In theory, anyway.

“Whoa, whoa!”  The old man with more bald-spot than hair threw his wiry body between her and the dressing room hallway.  “Vendors aren’t allowed back there.  You can go toward catering and then hook back around to the concessions areas.” 

“Does it really look like these go to Concessions?” she chuckled without concern.  This guy could be charmed as easily as Uncle Benny with her dynamic dimples.  They were her superpower.  “Garden Management gave me explicit instructions.  I’m to take these to the band’s dressing room and no place else.”

Uncle Benny had told her to get in and out, with the knowledge that she was headed for the dressing room.  It was close enough to the truth that she wouldn’t feel obligated to bring it up in her next Confession. 

“Sorry.  We have strict orders that only the artists and their designated personnel go back there.”

Her superpower was rebuffed with a shake of his shiny head, and Delaney took note of his nametag before hitching up a defiant eyebrow.

“Listen, Stan.  I’m going to deliver these flowers to the dressing room,” she reiterated with what she considered to be great calm.  “While I do, you can check in with your boss, since he’s the one who sent me up here.  Have a nice day.”

Yes, she’d purposely chosen those Bon Jovi-driven words.  The security guard might not get the Jersey reference, but it made her feel better – until she almost broke her nose against his bony shoulder.   He was using his body as a shield between her and that darn dressing room, and Delaney’s demeanor flipped from charming to churlish faster than the Incredible Hulk could turn green.

“What the H-E- double-hockey sticks do you not understand, Stan?  You’re interfering with my job here.”

“And you’re interfering with mine,” he returned coolly before depressing the button on a hand-held radio unit.  “I’ve got a potential security breach in Sector One.  Vendor says she has clearance from Command to be in the no-fly zone.”

Oh, for the love of…  I have FLOWERS, not a mother flocking hand grenade, dude!  Can the Navy SEAL shinola and get the freep outta my way.

“Approximately five-feet in height, light eyes and purple hair?”

While Stan squinted in the horrible lighting to determine if her dark hair bore any resemblance to purple, Delaney gave her uncle silent props for even noticing the subtle lowlights.  

“Affirmative.”

“She’s clear.  Let me know if she’s not out in two minutes.”

Take that, Stan!

Not interested in an engraved invitation, she side-stepped him with a haughty, “If you’ll excuse me, I’m on the clock.”

Her squeaky rubber soles zoomed over tile, bringing her to a row of doorways bearing signs styled like those at the elevator.  Rather than flat against the wall, these were placed perpendicular to ensure they were easily readable upon approach.  The first two on the right proclaimed “PX/Shanks/Everett” and “Dave/Tico”, while the first two on the left were “Chiropractic” and “JBJ”.

Evidently, she had been naïve in expecting the band to have a single dressing room, but it made sense now that she thought about it.  This wasn’t some troupe of fledgling musicians.  They were seasoned touring veterans and would want better amenities. 

There was barely a hiccup in her stride as Delaney coasted past Chiropractic’s open door without bothering to look inside.  If she wanted Jon Bon Jovi to have her work, then it was his dressing room that would receive the flowers.  Period. 

Her shoulders were squared when stepping confidently over the threshold of an oasis that looked far more appealing than an institutional dressing room. 

Talk about better amenities. 

There was no harsh glare of fluorescent lighting in here.  Softening the concrete surroundings were two glowing floor lamps stationed at each end of a black leather sofa.   Its matching chair and a lush potted palm were at the far end of the L-shaped seating area while a heavy coffee table squatted on the earthtone area rug that underscored it all.  

It was nicer than her fancy gynecologist’s waiting room, Delaney thought while scoping out the room’s personal touches.  There was a hand-held back massager laying at the chair’s base, but most points of interest were on the coffee table.  A black Sharpie and blank notepad were tossed carelessly on the surface and were accessorized with a pair of sunglasses, Mac, half-empty water bottle and photo frame angled in such a way that she couldn’t readily see the picture inside.

In the corner was an open wardrobe that held hanging clothes.  She cataloged blue suede, black leather, and black suede jackets before her gaze skimmed to the right.  A flip-up shelf was built into the wardrobe door, and it held a pair of well-worn sneakers with folded socks tucked into one of them.   

There was an unexpected intimacy to seeing the man’s socks, and Delaney could only glance at them before becoming uncomfortable. 

Focusing on the task at hand, she chose his table as the prime spot to display her masterpiece and gently scooted the laptop and notepad to one end of the dark wood.  Luxurious red hues shone richly from the table’s center, and she applauded her choice of a pewter urn.  The arrangement complemented the area instead of commanding it, just as it should. 

Management would want Mr. Bon Jovi to know who sent the flowers at a glance, so Delaney pivoted them until the card was facing the doorway.  Unfortunately, that slight rotation also revealed a drooping tulip.

“Oh for freep’s sake,” she muttered and perched on the sofa’s edge, not sure whether the floral frisking of Security, Uncle Benny’s fire-breathing dragon routine or the elevator ride was to blame for the imperfection.  Luckily, it would only take a moment to separate the errant blossom from its friends and insert it at an angle that made it stand proudly again.  “There.  Now stay put.”

Rising to her feet, she indulged in one last visual sweep of the area, memorizing the details to share with Petra, Marilee and Pearl.   This was another “cool moments in life” entry, and she was acutely aware of her privilege in experiencing it.

Bon Jovi fans would kill to see this dressing room in person, up to and including his socks.  Squelching the temptation to check his shoe size, she turned to leave  – and slammed face-first into a muscled mountain of flesh.  Delaney looked up… up… up at the eleven-foot monster in clothes that were as dark as his expression.

“How the hell did you get in here?”

Weird.  I thought Uncle Benny said “Jesus Christ”, not “Lucifer”. 

Next post: Friday, August 3rd